“What are they going to say to Russian guards?” said Inga, her teeth chattering.
“I don’t wait to listen.” Vasily put the car in gear and started forward. He rolled the window up as he drove. The car neared the Finn at the gate. He bent down to look into the steamed windows as their car drove past him. Tatiana saw he was young, blonde, with a moustache; he was smiling. Inga had stopped breathing and shaking.
“Dad, Mom has stopped breathing!,” Tatiana said desperately to her father.
“Shake her, rub her, do something,” Vasily said quickly. “I cannot stop.” They were only half way through the barriers. The guards were looking in the direction of the Russian guardhouse.
Tatiana pulled Bim out from under her sweater so she could get closer to her mother. She twisted her mother’s body. Inga’s head flopped backward onto the seat back. She opened her mother’s coat, and felt in her neck for a pulse.
“I am almost through,” said Vasily. “Rub her, warm her, Tatiana, do anything. Do anything. There is cognac. Give her cognac. In the pocket behind the seat. Cognac. Give her.”
Tatiana felt the car pick up speed. Heard the gates closing. She put her finger into the cognac bottle she found in the seat pocket, and rubbed some on her mother’s lips. She lifted the bottle to Inga’s nose so she would get the pungent smell into her body. Vasily stopped the car, taking Inga by her two shoulders. He shook her, watching her face. He eased her back into the seat and hit the flat of his palm against her chest three times, very hard. Tatiana felt a light pulse in her mother’s neck. “I can feel something, Dad. I can feel her pulse. She’s alive!” Tatiana lifted the bottle of cognac to her mother’s lips, letting the liquid touch them.
Vasily turned and began the car forward again. “What’s happening? Tell me what’s happening.” shouted Vasily, staring ahead.
“Her eyes are still closed, but she’s breathing.”
“I can’t stop again,” said Vasily, his eyes staring straight ahead.
Inga, eyes closed, began to moan. Her eyelids fluttered, although she did not open them. “I think she just fainted from the fright,” said Tatiana.
“Here’s the highway. I have to turn left here,” said Vasily. “Is she awake? Inga, we are through. We are in Finland. Inga, we are free. Can you hear me, my love? Everything is all right. Is she awake, kotyonok?”
“She is coming to,” said Tatiana. “Oh, Daddy. I am so scared.”
“It is all right now, melinki kotyonok. We are through. It is all going to be all right now. Inga. Inga?”
“I hear you, Vasily, my life,” Inga murmured. “I hear you, my life. You saved us.”
“Oh, Mom, Mom. You scared me,” said Tatiana, clinging to her mother, hugging her, kissing her face.
The family spent a month in Vienna as they waited for the agency that handled Jewish Refugees to process them. Inga’s health was deteriorating rapidly. When Vasily advised the doctors that she had been taking medicine regularly for three weeks, every day, and what she had been taking, they knew Inga was in serious trouble. The doctors doubted that there was much that they could do to save Inga.
At the end of a month, the family traveled by rail through Italy to the port city of Ostia, just south of Rome, where the breakwater in the harbor had been formed by the engineers of Emperor Claudius filling with cement and sinking the great barge on which Cesar Augustus brought the Flaminian obelisk from Heliopolis. Now in that historic site, an entire community of Russian Jews breathed the warm, mild sea air of the Mediterranean. There were palm trees near the shore not far from the stucco house with orange tile roof in which the family had rented rooms.
Italy and freedom should have been wonderful for Tatiana and her family. But it was not. In fact, in later years, Tatiana hardly remembered living there, or anything about it, except that her mother weakened daily, for three and a half months. Only prayer formed the major bulwark between Inga and the grave. And the foundation of that bulwark eroded steadily.
On a beautiful, cloudless day, under a vast, perfect, blue Italian sky, on a rolling hillside over which victorious Roman legions, centuries before, had marched from the sea to Imperial Rome, in the Spring of 1983, Inga Marcovich was buried in a Jewish cemetery.
Tatiana prayed as she stood at her mother’s grave. Then she glanced across the Italian hills, Bim dangling from her hand, viewing the dark cypress trees standing like thin sentinels on the entrance road of an estate on the far hillside. She prayed both for her mother’s soul and that the man, that American with the hooked nose, the thin face, the red hair, who attempted to kill them in the freezing night, the one who caused her mother such fright and fear, would find his way to the deepest, darkest, hottest part of hell, very soon. Tatiana wept into Bim’s scraggly side, bitter, angry tears, that day.
Watkins Glen Race Track : June 18, 1996 : 10:20 A.M.
The nose of Blue 2 was drafting right behind the open motor and exhausts of Green 9. The two single-seater Formula Fords hurtled as one down the long back straight at Watkins Glen, high above the Finger Lakes of Northern New York State.
Sandro Luca, surrounded by, yet totally oblivious to the blast from the exhaust in front of him, the squeaking, shaking, rattling of the cockpit into which he was squeezed, peered intently through the tinted lexan visor of his crash helmet. His brake point for the sweeping right at the end of the straight—a tilted post in the catch fence—loomed close. Sandro continued to grind the accelerator hard to the floorboard. His brake point whipped past. Green 9 braked as it turned toward the apex. This was the moment; Sandro clenched his teeth, turning his steering wheel deftly, diving between Green 9 and the apex. In his peripheral vision, he saw the blur of the other driver’s black helmet turn toward him. “Out of nowhere, baby, out of nowhere,” Sandro muttered as he fought the jiggling steering wheel through the turn, drifting left as he exited just ahead of Green 9. In his rear view mirror, the driver of Green 9 was shaking an orange fire-proof mitten in the air.
Inside the echo chamber of his crash helmet, Sandro laughed. So it was a little pushy! So it was a little dangerous! So what?
Glancing ahead, past the upcoming left, Sandro sighted a black car beginning to ascend into the pine forest.
“Next!” he muttered, his foot pressing harder against the metal floorboard. For an instant, Sandro was conscious of hurtling into shadows of dark green pines. He began to set up for the uphill right hander that led to a short straight. He had already closed some of the gap to the black car.
“Deeper, deeper,” he said aloud, guiding his car into the turn. The car bounced, jiggled, rattled, the wheel fought his grip; his body was pressed hard against the inside of the cockpit tub. Sandro could no longer see the black car, just the swirling kaleidoscope of trees, track, and flaggers, as his car powered through the turn. Sandro eased the steering wheel back a notch; the car quieted a bit, then smoothed as he drifted to the outside of the turn.
“Perfectemundo,” he said, smiling. He had gained a lot of ground through that turn. He was practically up the ass of Black 6 as they hurtled along the short straight, toward the 90 degree left. Sandro eased slowly into Black 6’s slipstream, the towing effect letting him back off the throttle slightly.
He knew, after the left turn, there was the sharp right into the front straight. The two cars drifted together to the right edge, setting up for the left ninety. Black 6 would expect a move on the second turn, the one into the straight. Sandro held his breath, cautioning himself. Careful, careful … He turned the steering wheel left suddenly, at the same instant, pressing his foot to the floor, demanding the power to slingshot out of the black car’s slipstream. For an instant, Sandro saw a portion of the other driver’s yellow helmet.
Deeper, deeper, Momma! Sandro muttered, his arms and hands quickly adjusting the steering wheel of the jouncing car. Black 6 was directly next to him, fading. As he pulled past, some part of Black 6 touched Sandro’s rear wheels. He bounced roughly, canting toward the right. Sandro fought the wh
eel left, easing the car back toward the outside of the track. He glanced in the mirror. Black 6 wasn’t there.
That was hairy, thought Sandro, rifting left, setting up for the right into the long front straight. Hairy, my ass! he murmured to himself. He was here to race. He laughed at the thought that the only way to know if you were going fast enough is if you were scaring the hell out of yourself. Then again, he thought, what could happen—I kill myself? For a flashing instant Sandro weighed the alternatives: whining clients, conniving adversaries, authoritarian judges in black dresses running his life. Sandro tried to press his foot through the floorboard.
When not dressed in fire-proof clothing from head to toe, including a balaclava under his crash helmet, through which only eye holes were cut, Alessandro Luca was an elegant, handsome, thirty-nine year old lawyer, who had long ago won his spurs in the coterie known as the best criminal trial lawyers in New York City—which, as far as he was concerned, meant the best in the world.
Sandro negotiated the turn into the front straight with ease. He particularly liked the Watkins Glen track. And today, it particularly liked him. In the first practice session, he had turned his personal best time, finishing second overall. Only Scott Kuhn had a better time. It was Kuhn who was in his sights now. He passed a green back marker as he exited the turn. Ahead, empty grandstands were on the left. On the right was the timing tower and the pits filled with mechanics adjusting cars, flaggers, and drivers from other races standing on the pit wall, watching the competition.
Sandro’s Blue 2 was gaining speed down the front straight when someone in the timing tower began to wave a black flag in one hand, pumping a pointed finger on the other at Sandro’s car.
Me? Black flagged? What the hell for? thought Sandro. He checked his gauges quickly. Oil pressure was up. Water temperature was okay. He listened to the drone of the spinning wheels, the rattles of the body. Everything sounds okay. Black flag? Sandro eased back on the throttle, and moved to the outside of the track. Green 9 hurtled past on the inside of the track. Black 6 went by. Son of a bitch!
Sandro did a full circuit on the outside edge of the course as fast as he could and entered the pit lane. Ahead, on the counter of his pit booth, he could see Tatiana Marcovich, in a red Ferrari jumpsuit Tatiana was now 26 years old, tall, her eyes dark, soulful, framed by long blonde hair pulled in a pony tail through the adjustment strap at the back of her cap.
A man in a business suit was standing just to the side of the pit booth. He smiled as he reached into his jacket and took out a credentials wallet, flashing an I.D. and badge at Sandro’s approaching car. An Agent? Sandro murmured to himself as he stepped on the brakes. What the hell was this about?
Tatiana stepped down from the counter. She had grown into a statuesque woman; when she wore heels, she was slightly taller than Sandro. She took off her cap, shaking out her long hair. Her face was attractive, with a warm, engaging smile, which hinted at sensuous mystery and intrigue. At the moment, she carefully studied the man with the badge. He said something to her. Sandro couldn’t hear over the sound of race cars flat out down the front straight. Tatiana shrugged, turning toward Sandro, who was unhooking his 6-way safety harness. He pushed himself up out of the driver’s tub.
As he stepped out of the vehicle, Sandro Luca, Trial Attorney, became oblivious to the noise from the track, the world of hurtling voitures. He had already shifted gears into the world of the New York justice system. His lawyer’s mind now raced with questions. Why had an Agent come to the track? What agency was he from? Was he there to bring Sandro a message, or arrest him for some bizarre reason? What a hell of a craft he had chosen, Sandro thought as he walked toward Tatiana and the Agent. Always on guard, never knowing when some judge was going to make you go to trial, never being able to plan anything ahead, never even knowing—lawyers being an especially sweet target for prosecutors—if some jailbird was manufacturing stories about a lawyer in order to gain a sweeter deal or a lighter sentence for himself.
The Agent said something toward Sandro. He still couldn’t hear. Several mechanics in their greasy jumpsuits, tools in hand, were watching the proceedings.
Sandro pulled the helmet, then the fire-proof balaclava from his head. He pointed to one ear, indicating that he couldn’t hear. He pointed to the back of the pit booths.
“If you had to arrest me, couldn’t you at least wait until I finished practice?” Sandro said to the Agent, half joking. “Sandro Luca,” he reached to shake the Marshal’s hand. “This is Tatiana Marcovich.”
“We met,” said the Marshal. He took another moment to study this exotic woman from a world far removed from the Finger Lakes. When his eyes shifted back, he noticed Sandro studying him in turn. “Sorry to interrupt your racing, Counselor. Jim Hollingsworth. Marshal’s office, Northern District. You really put the move on those cars coming into the front straight.” Sandro nodded.
“You were wonderful,” said Tatiana, smiling, linking an arm with Sandro. She spoke with a hint of Russian accent. “The Marshal says that you have a big case in the court”.
“I don’t have any cases in the Northern District.”
“A Judge Ellis, Merian Ellis, Southern District, you know him, her? I can’t tell if he’s a boy of a girl.”
“Neither can anyone else,” said Sandro. The Marshal laughed. “Even though Judge Ellis wears earrings and long hair.”
“The way I hear it,” the Marshal shrugged innocently, “that doesn’t tell much about a person from New York City.”
“You ought to come down to the big city, sometime, Marshal,” said Sandro. “It’s not as bad as you’ve heard.”
“One of these days, maybe I will.”
Sandro first met Tatiana six years ago, when he was defending her father, Vasily, on charges that he owed the I.R.S. tax on two million dollars of undeclared income. Sandro claimed, on behalf of Marovich, that the money was not income, but rather money wired or smuggled into the United States when he emigrated from Russia. After two lengthy conferences, although the I.R.S. was pig-headed and obtuse, a Tax Court judge persuaded the attorney for the Service that the documentation of K.G.B. raids which unearthed millions of other dollars belonging to Marcovich in Russia, and Tatiana’s testimony concerning Vasily’s and her family’s narrow escape from Russia in the middle of the night, and the K.G.B. plot to murder them—all supported Sandro’s contention that Vasily did not earn the money while in the United States. Upon an agreement whereby Marcovich would make a payment of several thousand dollars for some technical impropriety in filing his tax returns, the I.R.S. agreed the case should be discontinued.
At the time of the I.R.S. case, Tatiana was in her junior year in college. More recently, when Vasily decided to open a large, sumptuous restaurant in Brooklyn’s Brighton Beach area named “Vasily’s,” he contacted Sandro to help with the application for a liquor and cabaret license and the other legal details that were necessary to satisfy the municipal bureaucracy of New York City. Vasily’s—at least for the moment—was the newest and largest of the popular Russian Brighton Beach supper clubs. Since, during the pendency of the IRS problems, Vasily had transferred ownership of all his business interests into Tatiana’s name, she was the nominal owner of the restaurant.
Their second encounter was a year and a half ago. Since then, Sandro and Tatiana had become frequent companions; dinner and theater expanded into the occasional weekend jaunt to the British Virgin Islands for sailing or Aspen for skiing. Tatiana had arranged, weeks back, for her father to take over her tasks at the restaurant so that she and Sandro could drive up to Watkins Glen to spend this race weekend together.
“What’s really up?” Sandro said to the Marshall.
“Seems this Judge Ellis thinks you’re supposed to be trying some case down there in front of her instead of frolicking up here in God’s country.”
“Bullshit!” Sandro said angrily. “Sorry,” he said, turning to Tatiana.
Tatiana smiled, taking one of Sandro’s hands
in hers. “Mr. Luca still lives in a world of knights.” The emphasis she put on the ‘k’, made the word two syllables.
The Marshal nodded, his ear working on understanding Tatiana’s accent. “I have orders to transport you to the nearest airport and deposit you on a plane going to New York. Then I’ve got to call the Judge and tell her what plane you’re on. I’d be very much surprised if you didn’t have a Southern District Marshal meeting you on the other end.”
“Do you know what case I’m supposed to be trying, by any chance?” Sandro and Tatiana began to walk toward the area where street cars were parked. The Marshal followed.
“I think—not positive about this. It’s a big drug case with jigaboos.”
“Jigaboos? I haven’t’ hear that word in years.”
“What are jigaboos—” Tatiana shook her head.
“It’s a word for black people,” said Sandro.
“Really? I never heard this.”
“Lots of big city ways and words haven’t reached up here yet, thank the Lord,” the Marshal said to Tatiana. “Where are you from? You don’t sound like you’re from New York.”
Tatiana glanced toward Sandro.
“You must be talking about the Hardie case,” said Sandro. “Judge Ellis relieved me from that case ten weeks ago—just so she could get the trial started.”
“You can’t prove anything by me, Counselor. I’m just following orders.” Sandro stopped next to a navy blue Ferrari Testa Rossa and opened the door. The Marshal stepped back to ogle the car. “This yours, Counselor?”
Sandro nodded, releasing the cable for the luggage compartment.
“Mmm, mmmph. This sum-bitch—sorry, ma’am—”
Tatiana smiled and shrugged.
“—looks like she’s doing 90 standing still, Counselor. What’ll she do?”
“If there was any place to do it, 175, 180.”
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